


The Anguish

by mireh_lilav



Series: Thorns [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Death, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 03:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mireh_lilav/pseuds/mireh_lilav
Summary: Jon's resurrection wasn't a complete success - even the strongest magic can't fully reverse death. Jon has to deal with the consequences.





	The Anguish

Maybe after all Jon Snow was dead. Maybe the traitors did really succeed. They must have done it, otherwise Jon wouldn’t feel the constant, nearly incessant pain that flooded his insides. Jon Snow felt the pangs of unbearable pain every time he drew his breath, every time he moved his arms or turned himself to his side and yet nothing felt like his own. His body was stiff, yet mallow and weak, the unwilling host to a damned soul - overpowered by the inhuman magic, yet being resilient with its every sinew, its every bone. His battered heart reacted to each and every movement all the same - skipping a bit and letting the pain flower into a rose of blood that nearly sprang his ribs open.

_They had been sprung open or the will have been sprung open. _Jon couldn’t tell past from the future anymore. The present blurred into a drowsy spell. 

The pain didn’t give him even the tiniest luxury of repose under the guise of a single deep breath. It didn’t leave his side ever since the Red Priestess succeeded in bringing him back from the dead. He could have sworn it was the magic itself that brought up the pain, that helped it anchor itself in his soft tissues. Maybe, just maybe the magic itself was the pain and the pain was the magic. After all, who could tell with the ways of the Red Priestesses and their Lord.

_If he concentrated enough, he could still feel the mysterious push and pull of that woman’s energy. The only thing that felt remotely alive in his body, writhing beneath his skin, behind his eyes and deep in his gut. He wished his senses were numb, for he felt violated and used._

Jon closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe deeper - he had to show everything was fine. He had to breathe in and take his place and lead the people. The flare of pure white pain bored through his skull. He folded like a rag doll and slumped to the side. He clutched the table edge to prevent himself from falling to the floor and most probably crying. His eyes stung, his lip quivered as he rode out the last echos of the unfortunate inhale. He was broken. Broken beyond any repair. He needed to calm himself, otherwise the hysteria rising up his throat would have the best of him. He gritted his teeth and looked down. He concentrated on the rich fur lining of his cloak - a gift from Sansa. His dear Sansa had made it for him. He needed to be strong. For her. He steeled himself and drew a miniature breath. The pain flared up but was manageable. 

_If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost shut down the panicked thoughts. Almost. Almost was never enough._

Each of the shallow breaths he took, was careful and deliberate. They had to be. Especially when put for show. He stepped outside into the harsh Northern winter. A few heads jumped up, a few glances lingered. He could feel stares of Tormund and Styr boring into his back. What an unlikely alliance it was! Yet, at the same time he knew it was the only way things could have turned out after the massacre at Hardhome. The might be allies now, nonetheless he couldn’t show any weakness, not to them, not when so many other, not so friendly, eyes were watching. It would be dangerous to let them see. He slowly made the way towards his private chamber. He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep for a little bit.

_His body was numb as if cooling down into a mortal stupor and it felt like he was being flayed alive, bit by bit, piece by piece, even though he never regained the full feeling in his extremities._

Jon didn't quite make it into the bed. All of his strength left him at the door and as he collapsed on the hard, cold stone floor, he thought bitterly of all the disdain and disgust he would see in the faces of traitors and Styr. And Loboda. He forgot the other Thenn was also there, shooting him the unreadable looks full of something which Jon didn’t even want to name, yet not acting up on it. Not yet at least. They had a common enemy now. He curled into himself, clutching onto his arms and trying to still the sobs that suddenly bubbled to the surface and were now threatening to escape. How he was supposed to lead and win was beyond him. 

_The silent darkness of death had been burnt in right under his eyelids._

At that very moment Jon was sure - he was dead. Not only for this world. But for Gods as well. He had seen the death. He had seen the silence and the void. He had been cursed long time ago. Maybe even before Catelyn prayed to Gods to take him away. Oh, he knew. He knew about it alright. He was living the stolen time that had been stolen well before his birth. He should have been born still and cold. He shouldn’t have been brought to Winterfell. He was just a dirty thief. And a bastard. The abomination, the plaything of the fate. Pathetic crow. Sack of meat and bones. Naive and stupid. A rotting soul and a constant stream of pain. He didn’t deserve anything different. And yet, he still seemed to blaspheme the earth and the sky above with his each and every breath. Not for much longer.

_The fever came at night. It set his lungs aflame, closed his throat and rolled his eyes way back into the skull. Jon hoped he would never wake up again_

And yet he woke up. Barely breathing, barely conscious. Cold and shaking. With his bones twisted and aching. He scrambled up, made his way to the door before his legs nearly gave up. The walk down to the hall was punctured with dry heaving and crashing against the walls. Somewhat he made it to his seat without stumbling. Somehow he sat down and ate a few spoonfuls of what had been placed in front of him; tasting of ash and bones. His body would reject the food later. Not now but after a few hours as if it couldn’t keep anything down. He caught a worried stare of Ser Davos. Suddenly, the bowl in front of him was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

_The fever didn’t leave him. The pain didn’t leave him. The sleep did._

It was dark. Dark around the passages carved into the ice. Darkness engulfed moonless sky and the forest behind the wall. It lingered in his eyes and poured into his mind. He wouldn’t make it through that night. There was no way on earth and under the heaven for him to survive this onslaught of pain and nightmares, when both his body and mind were a step from giving up and wilting into a corpse.

_It had been a good life. A life which might have been worth living at times._

Jon didn’t want to die down there. He didn’t want to slip into the death’s embrace in his bed or on the stone floor in front of the fireplace. He didn’t want to collapse into the snow as he did when they stabbed him. He wanted to see the sky, he wanted to feel the wind and breathe in the sounds of the high night for the last time.

He slumped against the wall, no longer able to hold any composure at all.

_It had been a good life. At times._

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been drawn to Jon's resurrection as a scene in the show and as a motive. It redefined Jon's character for me and might be the main reason why I like Jon so much.


End file.
